


Nightmares

by chess_ka



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Nightmares, post-FALL angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:46:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, Henry Knight and John Watson keep in touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot at the moment, but there might be more.

The disorientation takes several seconds to fade. The nightmare lingers. The Hollow swathed in fog. Tendrils curl tight around Henry's ankles, rooting him to the spot. Snarls echoing around him, closing in. Red eyes. The images drift in front of his eyes when he wakes, before resolving into harmless shadows, indistinct shapes in the dim morning greyness. It is a routine now: he can barely remember what it is to wake up without sweat beading his forehead, his heart pounding.

He cannot linger in bed. He showers quickly, turning the water as hot as he can stand to wash away the unsettled remnants of his dream. His feet turn red under the scalding spray. He towels off and dresses carefully. Makes the bed. Stumbles downstairs, makes black coffee. Stirs it four times clockwise, four times anti-clockwise. Reads the paper as he drinks, scanning for any more mentions, but it seems that the media have moved on. Fickle.

He does the crossword. Rinses his mug. Goes for a walk, despite the grey drizzle: he relies on his routine.

He sees no one else on the moor and is grateful. They’re always kind to him, the rest of the villagers, always willing to chat, ask how he is. They think he is crazy. Possibly dangerous. His association with and defence of Sherlock Holmes, the attack on Doctor Mortimer, the death of Bob Frankland… they look at him and shake their heads. Poor lad, they say. No wonder he’s so disturbed.

Their opinions don’t matter. He is leaving soon, back to the busy anonymity of London. He will bury himself in his work and wait to get better.

**

The nightmares had been better, at first. The first week after that night (“Look at it, Henry. Look at it!”) he had slept peacefully each night and had woken exultant, fiercely joyous in his validation.

The dreams had changed then. His father had flitted through the landscape of his mind, watching him with quiet, sad eyes. He realised that he had never mourned properly.

He had never believed the claims that Sherlock was a fraud. Hot anger had settled in his gut on seeing the first news story. He had e-mailed every newspaper he could think of, telling them where they could stick their claims. Sherlock was a genius, and a good man. Sometimes he can still taste the cold metal of the gun in his mouth, a metallic taste that blends perfectly with his complete despair. 

(“Henry, just put the gun down.”)

They had no idea what they were talking about.

He had sat in his hallway for an hour on picking the paper up from the mat. _Fraudulent detective commits suicide._ His hands had shaken as he read the headline over and over, burning it to his memory. No emotion seemed to fit.

Not wanting to intrude, he had sent a letter of condolence to John Watson. “I don’t believe what they’re saying,” he had written. “Not a word of it. He was exactly who he said he was.” To his surprise, John had e-mailed him, thanking him for his support.

“Come and stay,” he had replied on impulse. “If you need to get away.”

It had been pleasant, having John stay for those ten days. He had been quiet and sad, and Henry had let him be. They had formed a tentative bond, gradually sharing more of themselves and spending John’s last night drinking red wine in the garden and laughing over John’s stories about Sherlock.

“Did you ever call that girl?” John had asked, lying on his back and staring at the sky.

“What girl?”

“The one from the train. She gave you her number.”

Henry had to think for a moment before the memory came back him. A dark-haired girl smiling at him from across the aisle, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she wrote her number. He had smiled and chatted to her, needing a distraction. On spilling his coffee, he had written over the number himself, unwilling to let her know that he wasn’t interested in her.

“Oh. No, I didn’t call her.”

“Why not?”

He hummed for a moment, weighing his words as he swirled his wine. “Not my type.”

“What was wrong with her?”

“She was a her.”

“Ah. Fair enough.” There’s no judgement. He hadn’t expected any: John was clearly in love with Sherlock. It made his heart hurt. “You’re not seeing anyone, then?”

“No. Never found anyone willing to put up with the nightmares and panic attacks for more than a couple of months.”

“Sorry. They must be better now, though?”

“They were for a bit.”

John was quiet. He took a sip of his wine. “People don’t get it. Nightmares and things. They can’t.”

“No.”

There is a quiet understanding between them. They don’t talk about it.


End file.
